( he doesn't think he's going to be able to listen to a-ha ever again, not after tonight. the record is still playing and for quite possibly the first time in his life, marc finds himself wishing he had one of those players that didn't reset once whatever side of the record that was playing reached the end, and it occurs to him quite suddenly, that lottie probably hadn't realised that's what would happen. if her family had records when she was younger, she'd probably been too young to pay any real attention to how they worked.
it's a mundane thought, thoroughly uninteresting, and he's half tempted to get out and turn the stereo off and meet her upstairs, the lounge taunting, embarrassingly empty against the stark sounds of 80s pop.
that's about as far as it goes because lottie speaks. it's sudden, not especially loud, but — compared to everything else — almost humourous. almost light. it's an observation that's unequivocally true, but the glance that marc gives her says he wants to disagree. says he doesn't want to admit she's right, that despite the way he dedicates himself to vigilantism, to a lifestyle that would massively benefit from regular sleep and regular meals, marc is utterly terrible at all of it.
it'd be futile and by the time the doors close again, marc's expression has shifted to resignation. acknowledgement. )
That's why I used to have a housekeeper, ( he admits. it manages to be an awkward utterance, somewhere between reluctance and self-awareness. nedda and samuels had always been steven's staff, really — jake rarely involved himself in anything to do with grant manor, whilst marc (marc) had. marc had managed to both be difficult and to make steven's life difficult, nedda and samuels both distinctly unfond of marc's personality and his fondness for moon knighting at the expense of everything else.
it'd not ended particularly well. marc, in the middle of a spectacular breakdown. moon knight in the news for carving crescent moons into the foreheads of criminals. framed for murder — which no-one in their right minds would have doubted, not given marc spector's history, not given moon knight's activities. they saw the news and marc had seen them watching the news. he'd thrown a crescent dart (or two, he can't remember—) at the screen and told them to leave.
and they had, of course.
the elevator dings for a second time — first floor — and marc gestures at the hallway as the doors slide open. )
Left, ( he says, and it's the opposite direction to the room he'd given her before. now that she's showered, now that she's just in a towel, it'd probably be easier if they go straight to his room, if he just gives her a(nother) fresh pair of clothes instead of traipsing between rooms, letting her shiver and grow cold.
he'll just get started on the food whilst she changes, he thinks—. )
[ ..Huh. Another thing she finds out, all by happenstance. If she never made a comment about his eating habits (truly, meant to be lighthearted), she probably would've never known thisβ Marc had a housekeeper. Someone who was meant to, she assumes, help get his shit together and clean this place. Make him food. Coffee. She wonders if Marc took his coffee any different back then or if it's always been the way she knows it (barely sweet, more coffee than milkβ mainly coffee, really). She wonders what exactly made them quit before she remembers.. Right.
The way he says it, admits it, looks, means she doesn't have to think that hard. It lingers, all that he has left unsaid. Sits a little clearer now, than before. Than all the other times he told her (warned her).
'This is what happens. This is why they're gone, I'm sorry.'
She refused to look at Marc, when he said this. But she heard itβ smelled the fresh scent of shower and coffee and tea and him all intermingling. Smelled the dust, the stale air that always lingers inside places forgotten to time, to memories. The weird way it sat on her skin. At the time, it made her upset, just like his clothes and how they made her feel itchy with nerves all of a sudden. Made her blow up at him and cry. Now, all she can hear is the sad and melancholy notes of his admission replaying over and over as the elevator dings for the second time. Lottie's bare feet pad out onto the floor, the sound vaguely wet and surely unpleasant, but it doesn't show on her face. The soggy clothing against her chest is something she's grown semi-used to now, but the abrupt note of left when she moves to the right is unheard of.
Her eyes dance between her room and his, then him. She can't deny she's curious to see whatever is in here, if it's just as barren and old and lifeless as the guest bedroom she's staying at. So she ambles towards it properly, instead of lingering some ways between when presented with something unexpected. Wanders her way to the doorframe for the room to the left and briefly glances up to Marcβ as if to say, 'are you sure?'
Of course, she does this even as she steps in, lingers nearby inside for him to wait for instructions. ]
( she doesn't say anything. she doesn't have to, her expression shifting enough to make the series of thoughts all but transparent. the way that she puts together what that means, the way that she didn't know before — marc's mentioned nedda, of course, in tangents and off-shoots that did nothing to explain who she was — and that it's yet something else that she's learning. something new to sit alongside everything else she's discovered this evening.
it's not quite understanding, not yet, but there's an edge of it there before her expression changes again as she steps out of the elevator, as marc directs her to go the opposite direction. this time, it's questioning, not so accusatory, not so hurt as their first trip up to the floor. it's curious and marc doesn't quite acknowledge it because he's not quite sure of the questions that will follow.
she doesn't ask, hesitancy gone in a flash as she steps inside the bedroom that'd been marlene and steven's, and then marc and marlene's, and then just marc's. it's his in the same way the rest of the house is theirs — a bookcase, dusty; two large wardrobes, one his and one hers (technically); a large bed, half-made. his suit, dirty and bloody, thrown haphazardly onto the plush chair sat by the window, boots equally as disinterestedly discarded on the floor in the same place.
it's not lived in, not in the way that the mission is, even if the mission is carefully constructed, a deliberate facade designed to say that he is mr. knight. he has his life under control, he helps his community. he's capable. the mission is opulent, egyptian-themed and alive — with plants, at least. there are hints, here and there, that the manor might have been much the same at one point, but—.
he goes straight to one of the wardrobes, the inside carefully partitioned. the largest by far is dedicated to moon knight and it's easy to imagine that marc's wardrobe away from here is the same. )
The bathroom's through there. ( through that door, he means. a beat, distractedly— ) —There should be another towel. ( a clean one, he means, not wet from his shower, not dirty with blood.
he pulls out another top, a black t-shirt this time, and places it on the bed. he hesitates before gesturing at the other side, the other wardrobe. marlene's. his lips quirk and he glances at lottie. given how hit and miss his guessing at her size had been the first time—. ) You can see if there's something in there you can wear.
[ Someone used to live here. Definitely Marc. He directs her to the closet opposite of his own, on the other side of the roomβ pointedly. And then she amends that thought: people used to live here. Marlene, above all else. Maybe his Frenchie. Her hair is drying properly, frizzy in the air it basks in, makes her look a little more unkempt and strange than she usually would be. After all, Lottie is prim. Proper. She woke up like this, hair silky and bouncy and skin smooth, perfect. To die for. She is every bit the opposite but it isn't actively plaguing her, this time.
She eyes the black shirt he lays out (she sighs out softly in relief, happy at his choice) before slowly moving to Marlene's wardrobe. When she opens it, it'sβ the polar opposite of her own. Somewhere in the back of Lottie's own closet she has a section for clothing like this. For working out, for comfort, practicality, fabric you can move in. The rest of it is clothing she's only worn maybe once, things she has to sport shapewear for and fashion tape, to be careful not to do much more than standing because bending means flashing people.
So the sweats she grabs, after moving some hangers around and looking down at the neatly folded pairs of bottoms, are a godsend. They, too, are black this time, and they meld together when she turns back to grab Marc's shirt and mumbles aβ ]
...Thank you.
[ βin his direction, eyes briefly making contact with him before she scuttles off to the bathroom. She makes quick work of it, dropping her towel and the clothes with his, bloodied and dirty, cleaning herself with the new one. She drops that, too, after she runs it through her hair to get it as dry as possible. Then, she puts her new outfit on. It feels better than the firstβ the opposite of form fitting, and for once she likes how much skin it covers. Likes the way it feels on her skin, breathy and loose. How she looks like am amorphous blob rather than a person, if she doesn't look too hard. She almost wishes she had a hairband, thoughβ a brush.
And ever careless, she shifts through his things in the bathroom. Finds Marlene's hair brush, complete with blonde strands of hair stuck between the bristles and she stiffens. Feels weird and like she's intruding on something, that she shouldn't be touching anything that wasn't explicitly given an okay. That it might make Marc mad or hurt, if she does. So she doesn't. She shuts the drawer, blinks a few times at how her hand lingers on the handle before thinking, nevermind. Maybe this is for the better. ]
( he sits on the bed at first, briefly entertaining the thought of going downstairs and making a start on whatever meal he's able to cobble together from the sparse ingredients he has in the fridge and cupboards. it doesn't last long — no, about as long as it takes lottie to get changed, to dump her (his, really) clothes in an unceremonious pile near his (moon knight's) — and he flops back, heavily, onto the bed.
god, he's tired, is the overwhelming thought. the one that seems to play at every facet of his mind in the ensuing silence, in the interim where he's not quite sure what to do when lottie re-emerges.
the door re-opens and marc looks over, brow pulling together in a tight frown, this one the kind that says he's attempting to piece together information, attempting to figure something out. in this instance, it's how receptive lottie is, how she's feeling compared to earlier. she's not quite a mess, not as such, but she's still not lottie, not in the way he knows her. her hair's frizzy, untamed in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen; even when he's spent time at hers when she's been dressed casually, it's never been in anything quite so loose, quite so obviously ill-fitting. it's—
discomforting. an unpleasant reminder. and so he sits up, his hair messy and untidy in a way that's utterly familiar, so much a part of him. more dry now then wet, unkempt and in as equal need of a comb as hers is a brush. he doesn't quite think that she'd got so far as looking for a brush, got so far as finding a long-forgotten belonging of marlene's and changed her mind (he wouldn't have been bothered if he'd known, or discovered later. would have been quietly thankful, in fact, for the difference.
marc is not a man that moves on easily, needs to be prompted to it. forced.) )
I don't have much, ( he states, apropos nothing, with no other explanation, and despite the fact she'd said she wasn't hungry. ) And not much in the way of Doordash to Long Island. b>( not nothing, but—. )
[ Why is he looking at her like that? Like he's trying to figure her out? It makes her pause at the doorway of the restroom, vaguely uncomfortable at being perceived so openly. Which β she wouldn't mind ordinarily. Lottie loves having eyes on her when she wants them, when she's pretty. Marc's gaze only serves to remind her she is not pretty, right now. That her eyebags are more prominent, that she's slouching and she probably looks as haggard as she feels.
Despite that, Lottie almost comments he looks like shitβ but then she remembers, right. They kind of both look terrible right now, just in different ways. Marc because he spent the better part of his evening rescuing her and Lottie being rescued by him.
(On top of everything elseβ Marc's state of being is always a variation of this, tired and world weary. Usually he's in a suit, making the decidedly messy qualities of his appearance a little charming. She can even pretend it's intentional, maybe, if she squints. Now? Not so much. Marc just looks as exhausted as she feels, tired in a way that is bone deep and only grows because nothing is being done to sate it.) ]
..Like the drink?
[ Because, predictably, Lottie has no idea where Long Island is in relation to anything. Marc does, the only one of the two who has a better sense of direction and geography, so him admitting Doordash is a bust must mean they're essentially in the boonies (also, he drove her ass all the way out to Long Island? He used to live here??). Despite having said she wasn't hungry, she looks put out by this, vaguely disappointed at another thing that hasn't gone her way, tonight.
She takes a few steps closer towards him, hands reaching up to cross at her chest, shoulders up high and only slightly tense. ]
I mean, isn't there a Denny's or something? Long Island has to have a Denny's at least..
( briefly, he looks perplexed, bemused, like he's trying to think about just what there is. marc hadn't chosen long island for its night life or its food or — anything, really, other than the knowledge that neighbours were few and far between. that privacy was assured and no-one paid more attention to each other than was necessary. that the house — large and odd in its internal construction — would fit his purposes. it suited him fine and it suited grant, too. lockley didn't care too much either way, happy as long as he had his people.
he shrugs, the movement awkward and not entirely fluid from the way he sits on the bed, the way that he's aware of burgeoning bruises and the fact he'd really, honestly, truly sooner be sleeping, but needs must.
he huffs out a breath, somewhere between amused and disbelieving. )
The drink? ( a long island iced tea. strong and an easy way to get drunk. a breath of a pause and— )Sure. ( what else is long island known for? truly, marc wouldn't know. ) Like that.
( the pause is lingering, thoughtful, the kind that says he's trying to remember what's around. bistros, the odd seafood place, a couple of italians— nothing that'd be open at whatever godforsaken hour it is now. lottie says denny's and marc, wryly, counters and admits that there's a— ) McDonald's.
( which he knows is open because he's eaten there a frankly embarrassing number of times on the way back from some moon knight adventure, sent frenchie off to get something for the two of them because nedda and samuels will be asleep and it wouldn't be fair to wake them, and he doesn't want to bother with reheating something, not at 5am—. )
That name is a loaded answer, Lottie easily surmising that there must be a reason by β above all other places β it's a McDonald's he knows is up 24/7. Not a Denny's, a restaurant that is arguably better and also under the same curse of being open 24/7, but a McDonald's.
The last time she ate there was years ago, when she decided to have a cheat day and have some chicken nuggets. She tries to eat as "healthy" as possible, counting calories enough to where her figure is still slim and curvy. McDonald's to her is synonymous with family trips when she was younger, synonymous with more mindful moments as an adult where she just wanted a snack and not to be full.
Right now, the mention of McDonald's invokes the opposite. So her expression that settles into her face after he wryly brings it up isβ open. Vaguely interested. She wonders how many times he must've gone to know about the McDonald's nearby if he hasn't lived here in forever (because it's dusty, because it's empty, because she knows he's sleeping somewhere in the Mission).
But because he doesn't move off the bed, Lottie doesn't move from her position either. Though her shoulders do relax, glancing down to the floor before meeting his eyes again. ]
I'd be down for some McDonald's..
[ She admits, finally, after a long moment of staring at Marc and visibly mulling over how to not-admit he was right, that she should eat and she is hungry. ]
( long island does have denny's, but none near where marc's ostentatious mansion resides. the (formerly) closest denny's closed down years ago, the inhabitants of southampton quote-unquote too good for it (but not too good for mcdonald's, evidently—.)
there's a moment between them, one where marc's expression is suggestive, offering in the sense that it's the only place that comes to mind, the only place he can be certain of without futilely scrolling through a meagre list of restaurants, almost all of which closed five hours ago. at least. mcdonald's is terrible, but it's safe and it's known.
lottie's expression doesn't say quite the same thing — it's tentative, then cautiously interested, then minutely relaxed. the sort of movement that says she's agreeing in spite of herself, and marc realises, suddenly, acutely, that if there was a better option, he'd take it. she's accepting but not quite sure, and marc isn't quite sure how he feels about that. there's no smugness to be found, no pride in the knowledge that he's right, that she's hungry and she should eat, because if it wasn't due to him, neither of them — no, that's not quite true, she, specifically, wouldn't be in this situation. she'd likely be asleep. comfortable. at ease.
he looks at her, questioning, hesitant. she's happy with mcdonald's (not quite the term), but he hasn't exactly given her a wealth of options to choose from. )
—Or I can cook, ( he says, still not sure quite what he'd manage to pull together. some kind of protein sat alongside some kind of carb sat alongside some kind of seasoning, the sort of bland-but-edible that speaks of his experience in eating for necessity not for want or desire. ) McDonald's will take maybe 20 minutes. ( beat. ) This time of night.
[ He looks at her and offers her another option andβ. Lottie isn't quite sure what he expects her to do, at all? Give her too many options, and she becomes overwhelmed. Don't give her enough, and she's in agony. She inhales deeply, uncrosses her arms to rub them down and over her tired face. Her eyes are starting to sting from the lack of sleepβ or maybe the irritation that's bubbling at how indecisive the two of them are. Twenty minutes does sound like a long time.. But in the grand scheme of things, is it really? But what does he want her to say? Does he want to stay in?
Is it because he doesn't want to be seen with her? If they're in the drivethrough her face won't look that bad.. Lottie takes a very long time just thinking over this, in pain at being given the option to backtrack when she already agreed to one thing. Beforeβ ]
Let's just stay in, then.
[ It's an unspoken fine that graces her tone, the same sort of tired reluctance she gave earlier. But rather than stand there and allow him the chance to say something else, a secret third possibility, she moves forward to tug him up and off the bed. It's not with the same usual confidence she'd carry thoughβ there's a lot of hesitance and anxiety dancing in the way she reaches for him, something even she doesn't quite clock before justβ grabbing a hand. Getting him on his feet so the two of them can leave the room properly. ]
( there's no secret third possibility, there's no other option. it's marc cooks — loosely speaking — or they get mcdonalds. it shouldn't be a difficult decision, although it takes lottie longer to reply than he imagined. her expression sits between frustrated, tired, and resigned, as if she hadn't wanted another option at all, and marc realises — belatedly — he should've just left it at that. lottie's not going to be thrilled with any option, and he gets partway to opening his mouth to offer a matching fine to the one she hasn't verbalised before she steps towards him, cutting him short.
surprise overrides anything else as she reaches for his hand, unsure, and marc can't work out if the lack of certainty is to do with him or if it's everything (anything?) else. her hesitance means there's no reluctance, no fight from him as she pulls him off the bed, only a questioning glance as he stands. sighs and mutters a low ugh not quite under his breath, the sort of noise made not for irritation, but for a lack of want of any kind of physical exertion.
to the kitchen, then.
he waves a hand in the vague direction of downstairs. ) You can wait wherever you want. ( a beat, and he admits — unneeded, probably — ) Don't have high expectations. Whatever I've got, it'll come out the freezer.
[ The freezer. Lottie closes her eyes in resignation at that, swimming in pain at the thought of the havoc this might cause on her system. But would McDonald's be any better? Arguably, it'd be worse, right? Her arms are back to being crossed, this time less stiff, body less curled in on herself. It's the same exhaustion he feels, conveyed in nearly the same wayβ a low ugh, an added drawn out sigh. She's done all of nothing except put his clothes on and she is tired. ]
..I'll stay here.
[ He offered!! She says after a moment of sweeping the room, a finger reaching up to scratch at her cheek. It ends up being the one that's hurt, still coloring from the fresh bruise settling onto her skin and she audibly winces. Frowns, for a moment. Ducks her head to look elsewhere, showing her good side to him as normally ("casually") she can. Some absurd part of her thinks that now he might not want to see it, when he saw it the second it started settling into her skin. When he still had that mask on, edging forward to see if he would cower or welcome him. Worry dancing off his frame because what would be worse, truly?
Lottie takes his place on the bed, drapes her hair across his pillow. Looks uncomfortable but tries hard to seem the opposite. ]
( good side, bruised side, none of it matters to marc beyond serving as a reminder. he's seen himself in worse states — split lips, black and bruised, half-closed eyes; has mopped up his own blood, other people's blood. she knows he was in the marines (briefly), but he's not sure if he's ever mentioned that before that and after that, he used to box — legally, at first, and then not, an underground venture in earning money and trying not to think too hard about what any of it — him, his actions, his anything — meant.
and so he notices the way she ducks, hides her face and turns awkwardly, but it doesn't occur to him why. he doesn't think of it, because why would he? it strikes him as very much a lottie thing to do, but as for the intricacies, the reasons to it— none of it registers.
what does register is the way she uncomfortably flops on his bed, the way she seeks to make it look like it's hers even as her body language, her expression says that she's not sure.
his attention lingers on her for a second too long, expression hovering between doubtful and accepting in spite of everything. she'll stay here, he thinks, and it's fucking ironic given the way she'd stalked off not once but twice already this evening, frustrated and irritable by all of marc's choices and decisions. )
—Fine. ( breath of a pause; a loose wave of his hand. ) Make yourself at home.
( before turning to leave, to head towards the kitchen. to explore his cupboards and his freezer — he'll have rice, probably. some frozen vegetables. potatoes, maybe. beans. pancakes, maybe— (oh!). something he'll be able to cobble a (sad) meal out of and little more, a depressing reminder of how little marc ever cares to take care of himself. he'd had frozen leftovers at one point — nedda, having made steven a meal, realised there was no chance of ( any of them ) being home in time to eat it and had put it away in a tupperware.
freezer burnt, by the time marc (not steven) had come to eat it.
when he makes his way back upstairs, it's with a burgeoning feeling of reluctance. the realisation that lottie has said she'll stay in his bedroom for him to bring food back upstairs and he—
[ Marc being a mess is not new. Marc covered in blood and bruises, while uncomfortable, is not new. She associates 'broken noses', phrase alone, with him, sees the color white in any iteration and thinks oohhh, the moon (AKA, Marc).
Red has become a delicate toss between Marc and Carolineβ it's hard not to think about the sight of him in that doorway. Imposing, stiff, nervous. Even a little scared. Covered in viscera and reeking of iron, letting her hug him tight in her agony. She thinks it will linger the same way Caroline lying dead in that bar bathroom, blood seeping between tile and threatening to touch her baby pink heels, sometimes does when she cracks open an egg. Thinks: splat. Is taken back to the thrum of music outside the stall and the sound of her skull splitting open.
It's awful. Unpleasant. But old. Time lessens all wounds, right? It's a feeling that she rarely experiences like she did that first night alone, when she tried to turn herself in for her murder. And that's the thing: she was alone. Technically, she is now. Laying oddly on his bed. Awkwardly. Smelling dust and feeling out of place again, all of her own doing, really. But it smells kind of like him, so it's okay. It's a reminder that she's not alone this time. Even if it's been a mess, a total shitshow of laughable proportions.
That at least when she sees a doorway, any similar to the one she was trapped in, it won't all be terror she'll feel when her mind inevitably drifts.
When he returns, she's got the other pillow over her feet (her toes were cold), her hands under her thighs to keep warm. She's no longer laying down, but facing straight towards the doorway (like she's watching for something), only belatedly realizing he's even come back and he's got a plate ofβ. Something. In his hand.
(It doesn't smell like much of anything, just food, and she's feeling thankful. Lottie doesn't think she can handle anything other than plain, right now. Can handle anything more than the easy mush he's probably cobbled together.)
She gently eases herself up from her position against the headboard, reaching for the pillow at her feet to put flat on the bed, where the plate will go. The good news is it looks like she didn't spend all that time there, waiting for a nonexistent pin β intruder β to drop. Her hair is combed through, some bits of her mane flat and other's wavy. She smells vaguely like vanilla because she found a bit of leftover lotion in his bathroom, too. ]
I won't.
[ She will. Lottie is a messy eater and habitually leaves messes, her signature print anywhere. Both hands reach out for the plateβ ]
( he knows she will. he's seen her apartment — nice, clean, orderly. the sort of place that marc likes. but he's also seen her bedroom, the hidden den of horrors that is how lottie truly lives — the cups, the plates, the piles of stuff that's probably clothing but marc can't really identify.
and so he asks her not to make a mess but inwardly, he steels himself, prepares himself for the knowledge that it's in vain. that he will have to change the bedsheets and clean up and do laundry, and it's—
—fine. the least he owes her.
the slight, vague, subtle change in her appearance is noticed even if he doesn't comment on it. his gaze rests on her hair, just for a moment. it's not accusatory nor upset, there's no implied question as to where or what hairbrush she found or used. instead, it's searching. looking, like he's trying to double check that lottie — the lottie he knows, is friends with, cares for — is still there. that she's not buried under the weight of everything that's happened to her tonight.
it shifts away from her, to the pillow she's evidently decided to use as a placemat and he makes his way over to the bed, more than large enough for the both of them. he doesn't answer her straight away, instead placing the unexciting plate of beige and vegetables between them. two forks, two knives. all appearances say yes, but the reality is never quite that simple. )
Yes. ( despite the fact that he doesn't move to take a fork, doesn't move to try the food. )
[ Marc stares at her and Lottie is wondering if he's going to call her out on her blatant lie. He's seen her room, he knows she has three cups in rotation at any given time (one water, one coffee, one a 'silly' calorie dense drink). Knows she has tissues strewn about, has stains on her carpet she hasn't cleaned yet. Has seen how her closet spills out into the living space of her room, making it all feel vaguely claustrophobic and chaotic.
(A great metaphor for her life, really.)
She doesn't clue in on the fact Marc is worried about whether this Lottie is still his Lottie. The one he knows who doesn't really listen to music and doesn't really like doing things by herself. The one who still has makeup on to wear around the house even when she's by herself, or not going anywhere. The one who bought him his own mug in her cupboard and forced matching slippers upon him, among other things (like her merch, like her general presence in Marc's life when she's bored and wants attention). She probably never will, just forever waiting for the other pin to drop and for him to tell her she's in trouble.
That Lottie is buried somewhere. Shows in fleeting glimpses of creature comforts like her having combed her hair, the way she hesitantly grabs the fork and.. Thumbs at the food (because she doesn't like it, like she vaguely might kick up a stink about it). It doesn't look.. Bad. Or good. It looks beige. Bland. But it's also the only semblance of food she's even had sinceβ. Her eyes flit up to Marc at his ladies first, torn on if she has it in her to put up a fight because she knows Marc. He probably won't be eating any of this at all, will probably spend his time watching her to make sure she eats.
Eventuallyβ ]
Fine.
[ Not necessarily clipped, but she certainly isn't expending her energy on any more words. She scoops up a reasonable portion of the mush and hesitates before putting it in her mouth. There's a winceβ her cheek is still bruised up and it turns out you tend to use that part of your face when you eat, so she adjusts to mainly using only one side of her face. Something like embarrassment flits onto her features, vaguely shame, as she makes the adjustment. It makes it difficult for her to swallow that first bite, throat thick with emotions. But she doesn't cry, Lottie's too tired for that. She simply says: ]
Now you.
[ And instead of waiting for him to grab his own, she just hands him her fork. ]
( he doesn't watch her eat. he catches the flicker of a glance when he tells her to eat first, the way that she seems unsure on how she wants to take the remark and how she wants to respond. it's another reminder of the night, of everything, because although lottie can be unsure, although she'll backpedal and rework her opinion depending on who she's with, it's never about things like this.
lottie, always, is quite certain about how she feels — flighty, yes, temperamental, certainly, but in the moment? her emotions are always assured. not always pleasant but then, neither is she.
it feels like the two of them are giving each other unprecedented grace. unspoken, uncertain, tentative. a mindfulness of eggshells that neither wants to do anything to really, truly acknowledge. fine, she says, and it's reluctant and he knows that if this was any other day, if they were anywhere else, 'fine' would be the last word to leave her lips. it's not fine, it just is.
and so he doesn't watch her because it'd be weird and because she's not a child. he misses the wince, the embarrassment, the awkwardness, attention fixed on not-really-anything in the corner of his room. distant, distracted until she says now you and it registers a beat too late. registers as she holds out the fork he'd given her to him and he looks at it, looks at the food. looks at lottie, reticent.
he doesn't—.
he inhales, the precursor to a resigned sigh that sits in his lungs instead of being expelled as he takes the fork, digs at the plate, and eats. it's fine. a vague thought that he ought to go to the dentist, that grant's going to be furious (something something this is coming from your pile, same as the haircuts and the treatments and the everything that marc should do but doesn't.) no embarrassment, no shame; familiarity. )
[ Thatβ Lottie plays with her knife, just sort of tapping at it with her nail and staring down at it. Her eyes flick up as she runs her tongue over her teeth, catching bits of the not-quite-gruel that he made that are still lingering. By all accounts Marc's right, she definitely won't get food poisoning from this. The grey might actually be a healthy hue, for all she knows (look at oats! Bread! Cauliflower!). And she's trying to be normal, but the way he says that just makes her feelβ defensive? ]
Iβ
[ That's the word: defensive. It doesn't outweigh the rest of her feelings, the odd ginger mix of it all. Because where Lottie would usually bark out her denial, she stutters. Pauses and thinks. Actually (actually!) parses though her feeling and realizes she feels a little upset Marc would even say that. Like what she (they) went through didn't happen, or like she hadn't wondered the same thing, if they were or weren't (going to kill her). Wondering what everybody would say if they found her body, another influencer dead and gone.
At least it wouldn't be from a stupid cash grab, at least it's what the fans would want. The drama, the spectacle.
(True Crime Youtube would love her, actually. No, but they'd probably use really shitty photos of her. Would probably make Marc out to look bad, like it's his fault. And it is, but it isn't. Marc wouldn't want this for herβ he may be Moon Knight but that isn't all he is. The blood and violence, the branding, the obsessive guy who moon graffities his neighborhood, every bad thing the internet says about him. He's more than that, him and all his odd and frankly irritating mannerisms.
Like a bad host. An okay cook. A tone deaf friend .. But a friend, nevertheless. Because she can tell he's just trying to get her to eat, really, not jabbing at her personally for the night.) ]
I never said that. I ate it.
[ She separates the grey from the vegetables with her knife, scooting them to his side. ]
( the insensitivity of the comment doesn't occur to him. won't, either, not unless or until it's pointed out to him. the problem is that marc, like lottie most of the time, doesn't take the time to stop and think about his feelings. he doesn't consider why he feels a certain way, only that he does. reflection and consideration is not innate to marc spector, and he has tried and tested methods of dealing (not dealing) with his emotions.
denial. ignoring. punching.
marc knows, objectively, that lottie's ordeal has been difficult. that it'll take time for her to work through, and he knows this because the evidence is sat in front of him. it's never been easier for him to acknowledge anyone else's emotions — he'd been dire at it with frenchie, exceptionally poor with marlene. it's only in recent years and after concerted effort that he's made any improvement at all — with reese, with greer. still not with steven or jake.
and so, because lottie is so often like him in that she feels but that she doesn't care to think on why because it'd require more self-examination than she'd be comfortable with, would result in a discomforting analysis of flaws and personality that she already knows in general if not in specifics, he doesn't think. )
A mouthful, ( he points out, watching lottie move the food around the plate. watches her pointedly not eat. a brief flash of something that makes itself known as an internal 'for fuck's sake' that he refrains from externalising, and he realises he doesn't know what to say.
realises that every time something like this has happened before, he deals with it by going. by heading into the city or wherever and using his fists to work through his feelings, leaving — what? marlene to visit jean-paul in the hospital? leaving marlene with jean-paul and samuels and nedda after her brother had died? realises—ish. enough to recognise that in spite of how tired he is, he's antsy. difficult. that his patience is thin.
[ A mouthful is better than nothing, she wants to say, with how her body flips between one thing and another. Between her emotions, exhaustion and a never-ending stream of adrenaline to keep her alert and kicking because a shadow moved too fast or a sound startled her too quickly. It'd be better if he stopped looking at her so.. So. She presses her lips together, puts down her knife with a clang and reaches over for the fork still laying plainly by Marc's side, untouched. She wonders if he knows he's giving her a vibe, how it makes her want to recede into herself because it's probably because of her.
There's a shift of her legs as one is drawn to her chest, as she curls over it. Realizes that neither of them have said anything and now that their fires have dwindled (no more arguments and personal drama to focus on, nothing but why they're here and the ensuing consequences thereof, how it makes the air tangy and her tongue bitter) it's awkward. Middling on unpleasant. Different from their normal awkward, the one she can navigate out of whenever she likes with a swipe of her phone.
(Her free hand twitches, like it's instinctively reaching for itβ or maybe like she already expects it to be there. Her eyes briefly dart down in realization, forcibly planting her palm flat against her shin after.)
Since she doesn't have her crutch, she leaves the duties of conversation guru to Marc because she doesn't have it in her to do much more than focus on herself. And surprisinglyβ he delivers? Her eyes look up to him, blink once, then, ]
..MREs?
[ He pointed out mouthful and she's venturing for another, glancing up to him as if to say see? I can be good. As if it'll help him look less ready to leap out of a window and away from the situation. Because of course he's uncomfortable, who wouldn't be? And so she chews, slow, careful, dutifully ignoring the throb to her cheek that trickles into her jaw when her teeth slam together too hard, when she stops being careful and resumes being normal. ]
( aside from the inherent discomfort, the obliviousness to what lottie might need or want from him — which ultimately has nothing to do with lottie and everything to do with marc — this is easier for him. it's part of his day-to-day. marc tends towards paranoia and uncertainty — not twitchiness, not concern about what hides in the shadows because he's the shadows, scarier than anything else, but doubt. a lack of trust.
the mission has a security system adapted from the one he'd had installed here. the one that means he doesn't have to be concerned by noises, but that doesn't mean he doesn't frown when she drops the knife noisily to the plate, features pinching and pulling tight even if he doesn't say anything. it's helped by the way she — eventually — takes a second bite. this time, he does catch the flash of discomfort, the pain, the way it hits her unexpectedly as she chews, not yet used to the different pressure points, the way she needs to adapt what she's doing.
it's—. guilt, cold and all-encompassing, filling and tense in his stomach, stretching across his limbs, and he says nothing. instead, his gaze flickers to her when she says 'army stuff', the instinctual response that he wasn't army sitting unsaid. she's not like rogers, from whom the remark of 'soldier' had felt pointed. she doesn't know the differences, the minutiae and it's not meant as anything other than what it is: a question. )
Meals, Ready to Eat, ( he answers, dryly agreeing— )Army stuff. A meal, a snack, and something masquerading as dessert. Some of them are, ( his gaze flickers to the food, to lottie. a quirk of his lips. ) Edible. Some of them— ( he waves his hand, loose and vague. ) There was a veggie omelette called the Vomlette. One of those was two too many.
[ Much in the same way Marc doesn't realize how his words can come across, it pings the same way for Lottie. There's very little thought in the distinction between where he actually was (military schmilitary right?? They're all the same!), just that she remembered it enough to even recall the detail. And since he doesn't correct her, even agrees with her, she hums. The first sign of a pleasant tune to leave her mouth all evening, really. ]
Ew!
[ Vomlette. She wonders how much one too many he's talking from experience. As disgusting as he implication is (is the 'v' for vomit, or veggie?) it's.. A little funny. Lottie doesn't laugh, but she expels a puff of air like it's the ghost of one. Maybe, the suggestion of humor. Like the idea of Marc eating this concoction is funny when put next to Marc eating a ready to eat meal that isn't from the freezer aisle.
(Marc in his suit in the grocery store, mask on and loafers shiny. She disguises the weird little quirk of her lips with another small, portioned out, bite.) ]
So it's like the stuff preppers eat? The dusty food you put water in. [ Not a question, just her trying to piece together where she thinks she's seen it in media, on TV. ] Did you have a favorite?
( her ew! is sudden but entirely expected, and marc exhales through his nose, short and nasal. ew doesn't begin to touch on it, if he's honest. she doesn't ask any details, not really, but he'd elaborated if she had vomit omelette courtesy of the texture, the taste, and the appearance. a truly unholy trifecta. technically the 'v' came from 'veggie', but—.
he pauses for a fraction of a second when she asks a completely unexpected question, eyebrows arching and expression questioningly blank. thinking. ) —Yeah, ( he answers, decision reached. (for the first part.) as for the second—.
god. )
Lottie, ( slightly pained, desperately and suddenly aware. remembers, suddenly, their first conversation, the one where lottie had mentioned still being in fucking high school whilst he was deployed in iraq. ) That was almost twenty years ago.
( he's fairly certain he said he got kicked out even if he didn't elaborate on why, but he's also fairly certain he didn't explain that it was a handful of years at most. three, maybe four. awkwardness interspersed with normality interspersed with increasingly odd and unexplainable behaviour, the sort that the crowd he ran with afterwards was willing to overlook because crazy meant payday meant who gave a fuck. yeah, sure, marc spector, sometimes jake lockley, sometimes steven grant, didn't always know when to stop, couldn't always explain what he'd done or why, but he always got results. )
Do you know how many times I've been hit in the head since then? You're asking me to choose my favourite like I'm choosing between my least favourite children.
She pauses her fork scraping down for another bite. Now she's remembering how she was in high school while he was in fucking Iraq. Lottie frowns deeply, only mildly hindered by the swelling to her cheek because she's so preoccupied with the thought that Marc is as old as her sisters and doing all of this. Has done so much more than she ever will. When her back feels like death because she's too top heavy and she's not even thirty yet.
Distantly she wonders how bad it's going to get when she's olderβ how it is for Marc who never will bear the burden she does (being beautiful is truly a burden) but gets the shit beaten out of him and vice verse for a living. How much wear and tear he's already put through his skin and bones, especially tonight, at her expense.) ]
..How many times has that happened?
[ Forget the chicken Marc, clearly, because that has quickly lost steam to her. She just notes it down as Marc's least favorite child right next to whatever is on their plate and she ushers him to take another, now more aware of how he's not eating but more so supervising her. It's here where she's actually recalling how much of his life has been bathed in violence, the continuing trend that has never stopped. Now with horror or scandal, but with disbeliefβ ]
An expert? ( he repeats, bemused. unsure. not really sure what he's supposed to have been an expert on. MREs? eh, not really. a handful of years and he's been out four or five times as long as he was in. or does she mean—
getting hit? fighting? maybe, given the question he hasn't answered yet, the question that doesn't have an answer because who knows! lottie knows the type of life he leads, knows what he gets up to, how he comes home looking. these days it's better than it used to be, he's better than he used to be — overall, he's less violent, if only because of the midnight mission, the help that his neighbours come to him for that isn't always beating some thug senseless. less violent because, right now, he doesn't feel as if he's got something to prove to khonshu, doesn't need to prove anything except that—.
he's not that guy. he's not the one who kept to the shadows talking to things no-one else could see, he's not carving threats and reminders and promises into flesh, not cutting off faces.
'the only thing I'm an expert in is dying', he thinks of saying and then decides better. thinks then that it's not true — two things, the other being causing hurt.
a weighted pause, the process of deciding working its way across marc's features before he speaks. ) There was a kid I used to know. He once told me he'd never met anyone that knew how to punch someone in the fist with their face as well as me. ( or: yes, lottie, he's an expert—. ) After I got kicked out of the forces, ( a pointed reminder that it wasn't something marc chose, for whatever that means. ) I boxed.
( a glance, level. ) The sort of boxing that you only get to watch if you know a guy who knows a guy. Good money in it, though.
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it's a mundane thought, thoroughly uninteresting, and he's half tempted to get out and turn the stereo off and meet her upstairs, the lounge taunting, embarrassingly empty against the stark sounds of 80s pop.
that's about as far as it goes because lottie speaks. it's sudden, not especially loud, but — compared to everything else — almost humourous. almost light. it's an observation that's unequivocally true, but the glance that marc gives her says he wants to disagree. says he doesn't want to admit she's right, that despite the way he dedicates himself to vigilantism, to a lifestyle that would massively benefit from regular sleep and regular meals, marc is utterly terrible at all of it.
it'd be futile and by the time the doors close again, marc's expression has shifted to resignation. acknowledgement. )
That's why I used to have a housekeeper, ( he admits. it manages to be an awkward utterance, somewhere between reluctance and self-awareness. nedda and samuels had always been steven's staff, really — jake rarely involved himself in anything to do with grant manor, whilst marc (marc) had. marc had managed to both be difficult and to make steven's life difficult, nedda and samuels both distinctly unfond of marc's personality and his fondness for moon knighting at the expense of everything else.
it'd not ended particularly well. marc, in the middle of a spectacular breakdown. moon knight in the news for carving crescent moons into the foreheads of criminals. framed for murder — which no-one in their right minds would have doubted, not given marc spector's history, not given moon knight's activities. they saw the news and marc had seen them watching the news. he'd thrown a crescent dart (or two, he can't remember—) at the screen and told them to leave.
and they had, of course.
the elevator dings for a second time — first floor — and marc gestures at the hallway as the doors slide open. )
Left, ( he says, and it's the opposite direction to the room he'd given her before. now that she's showered, now that she's just in a towel, it'd probably be easier if they go straight to his room, if he just gives her a(nother) fresh pair of clothes instead of traipsing between rooms, letting her shiver and grow cold.
he'll just get started on the food whilst she changes, he thinks—. )
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The way he says it, admits it, looks, means she doesn't have to think that hard. It lingers, all that he has left unsaid. Sits a little clearer now, than before. Than all the other times he told her (warned her).
'This is what happens. This is why they're gone, I'm sorry.'
She refused to look at Marc, when he said this. But she heard itβ smelled the fresh scent of shower and coffee and tea and him all intermingling. Smelled the dust, the stale air that always lingers inside places forgotten to time, to memories. The weird way it sat on her skin. At the time, it made her upset, just like his clothes and how they made her feel itchy with nerves all of a sudden. Made her blow up at him and cry. Now, all she can hear is the sad and melancholy notes of his admission replaying over and over as the elevator dings for the second time. Lottie's bare feet pad out onto the floor, the sound vaguely wet and surely unpleasant, but it doesn't show on her face. The soggy clothing against her chest is something she's grown semi-used to now, but the abrupt note of left when she moves to the right is unheard of.
Her eyes dance between her room and his, then him. She can't deny she's curious to see whatever is in here, if it's just as barren and old and lifeless as the guest bedroom she's staying at. So she ambles towards it properly, instead of lingering some ways between when presented with something unexpected. Wanders her way to the doorframe for the room to the left and briefly glances up to Marcβ as if to say, 'are you sure?'
Of course, she does this even as she steps in, lingers nearby inside for him to wait for instructions. ]
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it's not quite understanding, not yet, but there's an edge of it there before her expression changes again as she steps out of the elevator, as marc directs her to go the opposite direction. this time, it's questioning, not so accusatory, not so hurt as their first trip up to the floor. it's curious and marc doesn't quite acknowledge it because he's not quite sure of the questions that will follow.
she doesn't ask, hesitancy gone in a flash as she steps inside the bedroom that'd been marlene and steven's, and then marc and marlene's, and then just marc's. it's his in the same way the rest of the house is theirs — a bookcase, dusty; two large wardrobes, one his and one hers (technically); a large bed, half-made. his suit, dirty and bloody, thrown haphazardly onto the plush chair sat by the window, boots equally as disinterestedly discarded on the floor in the same place.
it's not lived in, not in the way that the mission is, even if the mission is carefully constructed, a deliberate facade designed to say that he is mr. knight. he has his life under control, he helps his community. he's capable. the mission is opulent, egyptian-themed and alive — with plants, at least. there are hints, here and there, that the manor might have been much the same at one point, but—.
he goes straight to one of the wardrobes, the inside carefully partitioned. the largest by far is dedicated to moon knight and it's easy to imagine that marc's wardrobe away from here is the same. )
The bathroom's through there. ( through that door, he means. a beat, distractedly— ) —There should be another towel. ( a clean one, he means, not wet from his shower, not dirty with blood.
he pulls out another top, a black t-shirt this time, and places it on the bed. he hesitates before gesturing at the other side, the other wardrobe. marlene's. his lips quirk and he glances at lottie. given how hit and miss his guessing at her size had been the first time—. ) You can see if there's something in there you can wear.
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She eyes the black shirt he lays out (she sighs out softly in relief, happy at his choice) before slowly moving to Marlene's wardrobe. When she opens it, it'sβ the polar opposite of her own. Somewhere in the back of Lottie's own closet she has a section for clothing like this. For working out, for comfort, practicality, fabric you can move in. The rest of it is clothing she's only worn maybe once, things she has to sport shapewear for and fashion tape, to be careful not to do much more than standing because bending means flashing people.
So the sweats she grabs, after moving some hangers around and looking down at the neatly folded pairs of bottoms, are a godsend. They, too, are black this time, and they meld together when she turns back to grab Marc's shirt and mumbles aβ ]
...Thank you.
[ βin his direction, eyes briefly making contact with him before she scuttles off to the bathroom. She makes quick work of it, dropping her towel and the clothes with his, bloodied and dirty, cleaning herself with the new one. She drops that, too, after she runs it through her hair to get it as dry as possible. Then, she puts her new outfit on. It feels better than the firstβ the opposite of form fitting, and for once she likes how much skin it covers. Likes the way it feels on her skin, breathy and loose. How she looks like am amorphous blob rather than a person, if she doesn't look too hard. She almost wishes she had a hairband, thoughβ a brush.
And ever careless, she shifts through his things in the bathroom. Finds Marlene's hair brush, complete with blonde strands of hair stuck between the bristles and she stiffens. Feels weird and like she's intruding on something, that she shouldn't be touching anything that wasn't explicitly given an okay. That it might make Marc mad or hurt, if she does. So she doesn't. She shuts the drawer, blinks a few times at how her hand lingers on the handle before thinking, nevermind. Maybe this is for the better. ]
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god, he's tired, is the overwhelming thought. the one that seems to play at every facet of his mind in the ensuing silence, in the interim where he's not quite sure what to do when lottie re-emerges.
the door re-opens and marc looks over, brow pulling together in a tight frown, this one the kind that says he's attempting to piece together information, attempting to figure something out. in this instance, it's how receptive lottie is, how she's feeling compared to earlier. she's not quite a mess, not as such, but she's still not lottie, not in the way he knows her. her hair's frizzy, untamed in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen; even when he's spent time at hers when she's been dressed casually, it's never been in anything quite so loose, quite so obviously ill-fitting. it's—
discomforting. an unpleasant reminder. and so he sits up, his hair messy and untidy in a way that's utterly familiar, so much a part of him. more dry now then wet, unkempt and in as equal need of a comb as hers is a brush. he doesn't quite think that she'd got so far as looking for a brush, got so far as finding a long-forgotten belonging of marlene's and changed her mind (he wouldn't have been bothered if he'd known, or discovered later. would have been quietly thankful, in fact, for the difference.
marc is not a man that moves on easily, needs to be prompted to it. forced.) )
I don't have much, ( he states, apropos nothing, with no other explanation, and despite the fact she'd said she wasn't hungry. ) And not much in the way of Doordash to Long Island. b>( not nothing, but—. )
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Despite that, Lottie almost comments he looks like shitβ but then she remembers, right. They kind of both look terrible right now, just in different ways. Marc because he spent the better part of his evening rescuing her and Lottie being rescued by him.
(On top of everything elseβ Marc's state of being is always a variation of this, tired and world weary. Usually he's in a suit, making the decidedly messy qualities of his appearance a little charming. She can even pretend it's intentional, maybe, if she squints. Now? Not so much. Marc just looks as exhausted as she feels, tired in a way that is bone deep and only grows because nothing is being done to sate it.) ]
..Like the drink?
[ Because, predictably, Lottie has no idea where Long Island is in relation to anything. Marc does, the only one of the two who has a better sense of direction and geography, so him admitting Doordash is a bust must mean they're essentially in the boonies (also, he drove her ass all the way out to Long Island? He used to live here??). Despite having said she wasn't hungry, she looks put out by this, vaguely disappointed at another thing that hasn't gone her way, tonight.
She takes a few steps closer towards him, hands reaching up to cross at her chest, shoulders up high and only slightly tense. ]
I mean, isn't there a Denny's or something? Long Island has to have a Denny's at least..
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he shrugs, the movement awkward and not entirely fluid from the way he sits on the bed, the way that he's aware of burgeoning bruises and the fact he'd really, honestly, truly sooner be sleeping, but needs must.
he huffs out a breath, somewhere between amused and disbelieving. )
The drink? ( a long island iced tea. strong and an easy way to get drunk. a breath of a pause and— ) Sure. ( what else is long island known for? truly, marc wouldn't know. ) Like that.
( the pause is lingering, thoughtful, the kind that says he's trying to remember what's around. bistros, the odd seafood place, a couple of italians— nothing that'd be open at whatever godforsaken hour it is now. lottie says denny's and marc, wryly, counters and admits that there's a— ) McDonald's.
( which he knows is open because he's eaten there a frankly embarrassing number of times on the way back from some moon knight adventure, sent frenchie off to get something for the two of them because nedda and samuels will be asleep and it wouldn't be fair to wake them, and he doesn't want to bother with reheating something, not at 5am—. )
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That name is a loaded answer, Lottie easily surmising that there must be a reason by β above all other places β it's a McDonald's he knows is up 24/7. Not a Denny's, a restaurant that is arguably better and also under the same curse of being open 24/7, but a McDonald's.
The last time she ate there was years ago, when she decided to have a cheat day and have some chicken nuggets. She tries to eat as "healthy" as possible, counting calories enough to where her figure is still slim and curvy. McDonald's to her is synonymous with family trips when she was younger, synonymous with more mindful moments as an adult where she just wanted a snack and not to be full.
Right now, the mention of McDonald's invokes the opposite. So her expression that settles into her face after he wryly brings it up isβ open. Vaguely interested. She wonders how many times he must've gone to know about the McDonald's nearby if he hasn't lived here in forever (because it's dusty, because it's empty, because she knows he's sleeping somewhere in the Mission).
But because he doesn't move off the bed, Lottie doesn't move from her position either. Though her shoulders do relax, glancing down to the floor before meeting his eyes again. ]
I'd be down for some McDonald's..
[ She admits, finally, after a long moment of staring at Marc and visibly mulling over how to not-admit he was right, that she should eat and she is hungry. ]
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there's a moment between them, one where marc's expression is suggestive, offering in the sense that it's the only place that comes to mind, the only place he can be certain of without futilely scrolling through a meagre list of restaurants, almost all of which closed five hours ago. at least. mcdonald's is terrible, but it's safe and it's known.
lottie's expression doesn't say quite the same thing — it's tentative, then cautiously interested, then minutely relaxed. the sort of movement that says she's agreeing in spite of herself, and marc realises, suddenly, acutely, that if there was a better option, he'd take it. she's accepting but not quite sure, and marc isn't quite sure how he feels about that. there's no smugness to be found, no pride in the knowledge that he's right, that she's hungry and she should eat, because if it wasn't due to him, neither of them — no, that's not quite true, she, specifically, wouldn't be in this situation. she'd likely be asleep. comfortable. at ease.
he looks at her, questioning, hesitant. she's happy with mcdonald's (not quite the term), but he hasn't exactly given her a wealth of options to choose from. )
—Or I can cook, ( he says, still not sure quite what he'd manage to pull together. some kind of protein sat alongside some kind of carb sat alongside some kind of seasoning, the sort of bland-but-edible that speaks of his experience in eating for necessity not for want or desire. ) McDonald's will take maybe 20 minutes. ( beat. ) This time of night.
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Is it because he doesn't want to be seen with her? If they're in the drivethrough her face won't look that bad.. Lottie takes a very long time just thinking over this, in pain at being given the option to backtrack when she already agreed to one thing. Beforeβ ]
Let's just stay in, then.
[ It's an unspoken fine that graces her tone, the same sort of tired reluctance she gave earlier. But rather than stand there and allow him the chance to say something else, a secret third possibility, she moves forward to tug him up and off the bed. It's not with the same usual confidence she'd carry thoughβ there's a lot of hesitance and anxiety dancing in the way she reaches for him, something even she doesn't quite clock before justβ grabbing a hand. Getting him on his feet so the two of them can leave the room properly. ]
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surprise overrides anything else as she reaches for his hand, unsure, and marc can't work out if the lack of certainty is to do with him or if it's everything (anything?) else. her hesitance means there's no reluctance, no fight from him as she pulls him off the bed, only a questioning glance as he stands. sighs and mutters a low ugh not quite under his breath, the sort of noise made not for irritation, but for a lack of want of any kind of physical exertion.
to the kitchen, then.
he waves a hand in the vague direction of downstairs. ) You can wait wherever you want. ( a beat, and he admits — unneeded, probably — ) Don't have high expectations. Whatever I've got, it'll come out the freezer.
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..I'll stay here.
[ He offered!! She says after a moment of sweeping the room, a finger reaching up to scratch at her cheek. It ends up being the one that's hurt, still coloring from the fresh bruise settling onto her skin and she audibly winces. Frowns, for a moment. Ducks her head to look elsewhere, showing her good side to him as normally ("casually") she can. Some absurd part of her thinks that now he might not want to see it, when he saw it the second it started settling into her skin. When he still had that mask on, edging forward to see if he would cower or welcome him. Worry dancing off his frame because what would be worse, truly?
Lottie takes his place on the bed, drapes her hair across his pillow. Looks uncomfortable but tries hard to seem the opposite. ]
..And if it sucks I won't say anything.
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and so he notices the way she ducks, hides her face and turns awkwardly, but it doesn't occur to him why. he doesn't think of it, because why would he? it strikes him as very much a lottie thing to do, but as for the intricacies, the reasons to it— none of it registers.
what does register is the way she uncomfortably flops on his bed, the way she seeks to make it look like it's hers even as her body language, her expression says that she's not sure.
his attention lingers on her for a second too long, expression hovering between doubtful and accepting in spite of everything. she'll stay here, he thinks, and it's fucking ironic given the way she'd stalked off not once but twice already this evening, frustrated and irritable by all of marc's choices and decisions. )
—Fine. ( breath of a pause; a loose wave of his hand. ) Make yourself at home.
( before turning to leave, to head towards the kitchen. to explore his cupboards and his freezer — he'll have rice, probably. some frozen vegetables. potatoes, maybe. beans. pancakes, maybe— (oh!). something he'll be able to cobble a (sad) meal out of and little more, a depressing reminder of how little marc ever cares to take care of himself. he'd had frozen leftovers at one point — nedda, having made steven a meal, realised there was no chance of ( any of them ) being home in time to eat it and had put it away in a tupperware.
freezer burnt, by the time marc (not steven) had come to eat it.
when he makes his way back upstairs, it's with a burgeoning feeling of reluctance. the realisation that lottie has said she'll stay in his bedroom for him to bring food back upstairs and he—
—god. the room's going to smell of food. )
—Please don't make a mess.
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Red has become a delicate toss between Marc and Carolineβ it's hard not to think about the sight of him in that doorway. Imposing, stiff, nervous. Even a little scared. Covered in viscera and reeking of iron, letting her hug him tight in her agony. She thinks it will linger the same way Caroline lying dead in that bar bathroom, blood seeping between tile and threatening to touch her baby pink heels, sometimes does when she cracks open an egg. Thinks: splat. Is taken back to the thrum of music outside the stall and the sound of her skull splitting open.
It's awful. Unpleasant. But old. Time lessens all wounds, right? It's a feeling that she rarely experiences like she did that first night alone, when she tried to turn herself in for her murder. And that's the thing: she was alone. Technically, she is now. Laying oddly on his bed. Awkwardly. Smelling dust and feeling out of place again, all of her own doing, really. But it smells kind of like him, so it's okay. It's a reminder that she's not alone this time. Even if it's been a mess, a total shitshow of laughable proportions.
That at least when she sees a doorway, any similar to the one she was trapped in, it won't all be terror she'll feel when her mind inevitably drifts.
When he returns, she's got the other pillow over her feet (her toes were cold), her hands under her thighs to keep warm. She's no longer laying down, but facing straight towards the doorway (like she's watching for something), only belatedly realizing he's even come back and he's got a plate ofβ. Something. In his hand.
(It doesn't smell like much of anything, just food, and she's feeling thankful. Lottie doesn't think she can handle anything other than plain, right now. Can handle anything more than the easy mush he's probably cobbled together.)
She gently eases herself up from her position against the headboard, reaching for the pillow at her feet to put flat on the bed, where the plate will go. The good news is it looks like she didn't spend all that time there, waiting for a nonexistent pin β intruder β to drop. Her hair is combed through, some bits of her mane flat and other's wavy. She smells vaguely like vanilla because she found a bit of leftover lotion in his bathroom, too. ]
I won't.
[ She will. Lottie is a messy eater and habitually leaves messes, her signature print anywhere. Both hands reach out for the plateβ ]
Are you gonna have some?
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and so he asks her not to make a mess but inwardly, he steels himself, prepares himself for the knowledge that it's in vain. that he will have to change the bedsheets and clean up and do laundry, and it's—
—fine. the least he owes her.
the slight, vague, subtle change in her appearance is noticed even if he doesn't comment on it. his gaze rests on her hair, just for a moment. it's not accusatory nor upset, there's no implied question as to where or what hairbrush she found or used. instead, it's searching. looking, like he's trying to double check that lottie — the lottie he knows, is friends with, cares for — is still there. that she's not buried under the weight of everything that's happened to her tonight.
it shifts away from her, to the pillow she's evidently decided to use as a placemat and he makes his way over to the bed, more than large enough for the both of them. he doesn't answer her straight away, instead placing the unexciting plate of beige and vegetables between them. two forks, two knives. all appearances say yes, but the reality is never quite that simple. )
Yes. ( despite the fact that he doesn't move to take a fork, doesn't move to try the food. )
—Ladies first.
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(A great metaphor for her life, really.)
She doesn't clue in on the fact Marc is worried about whether this Lottie is still his Lottie. The one he knows who doesn't really listen to music and doesn't really like doing things by herself. The one who still has makeup on to wear around the house even when she's by herself, or not going anywhere. The one who bought him his own mug in her cupboard and forced matching slippers upon him, among other things (like her merch, like her general presence in Marc's life when she's bored and wants attention). She probably never will, just forever waiting for the other pin to drop and for him to tell her she's in trouble.
That Lottie is buried somewhere. Shows in fleeting glimpses of creature comforts like her having combed her hair, the way she hesitantly grabs the fork and.. Thumbs at the food (because she doesn't like it, like she vaguely might kick up a stink about it). It doesn't look.. Bad. Or good. It looks beige. Bland. But it's also the only semblance of food she's even had sinceβ. Her eyes flit up to Marc at his ladies first, torn on if she has it in her to put up a fight because she knows Marc. He probably won't be eating any of this at all, will probably spend his time watching her to make sure she eats.
Eventuallyβ ]
Fine.
[ Not necessarily clipped, but she certainly isn't expending her energy on any more words. She scoops up a reasonable portion of the mush and hesitates before putting it in her mouth. There's a winceβ her cheek is still bruised up and it turns out you tend to use that part of your face when you eat, so she adjusts to mainly using only one side of her face. Something like embarrassment flits onto her features, vaguely shame, as she makes the adjustment. It makes it difficult for her to swallow that first bite, throat thick with emotions. But she doesn't cry, Lottie's too tired for that. She simply says: ]
Now you.
[ And instead of waiting for him to grab his own, she just hands him her fork. ]
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lottie, always, is quite certain about how she feels — flighty, yes, temperamental, certainly, but in the moment? her emotions are always assured. not always pleasant but then, neither is she.
it feels like the two of them are giving each other unprecedented grace. unspoken, uncertain, tentative. a mindfulness of eggshells that neither wants to do anything to really, truly acknowledge. fine, she says, and it's reluctant and he knows that if this was any other day, if they were anywhere else, 'fine' would be the last word to leave her lips. it's not fine, it just is.
and so he doesn't watch her because it'd be weird and because she's not a child. he misses the wince, the embarrassment, the awkwardness, attention fixed on not-really-anything in the corner of his room. distant, distracted until she says now you and it registers a beat too late. registers as she holds out the fork he'd given her to him and he looks at it, looks at the food. looks at lottie, reticent.
he doesn't—.
he inhales, the precursor to a resigned sigh that sits in his lungs instead of being expelled as he takes the fork, digs at the plate, and eats. it's fine. a vague thought that he ought to go to the dentist, that grant's going to be furious (something something this is coming from your pile, same as the haircuts and the treatments and the everything that marc should do but doesn't.) no embarrassment, no shame; familiarity. )
—See? Not going to kill you.
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Iβ
[ That's the word: defensive. It doesn't outweigh the rest of her feelings, the odd ginger mix of it all. Because where Lottie would usually bark out her denial, she stutters. Pauses and thinks. Actually (actually!) parses though her feeling and realizes she feels a little upset Marc would even say that. Like what she (they) went through didn't happen, or like she hadn't wondered the same thing, if they were or weren't (going to kill her). Wondering what everybody would say if they found her body, another influencer dead and gone.
At least it wouldn't be from a stupid cash grab, at least it's what the fans would want. The drama, the spectacle.
(True Crime Youtube would love her, actually. No, but they'd probably use really shitty photos of her. Would probably make Marc out to look bad, like it's his fault. And it is, but it isn't. Marc wouldn't want this for herβ he may be Moon Knight but that isn't all he is. The blood and violence, the branding, the obsessive guy who moon graffities his neighborhood, every bad thing the internet says about him. He's more than that, him and all his odd and frankly irritating mannerisms.
Like a bad host. An okay cook. A tone deaf friend .. But a friend, nevertheless. Because she can tell he's just trying to get her to eat, really, not jabbing at her personally for the night.) ]
I never said that. I ate it.
[ She separates the grey from the vegetables with her knife, scooting them to his side. ]
It's edible.
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denial. ignoring. punching.
marc knows, objectively, that lottie's ordeal has been difficult. that it'll take time for her to work through, and he knows this because the evidence is sat in front of him. it's never been easier for him to acknowledge anyone else's emotions — he'd been dire at it with frenchie, exceptionally poor with marlene. it's only in recent years and after concerted effort that he's made any improvement at all — with reese, with greer. still not with steven or jake.
and so, because lottie is so often like him in that she feels but that she doesn't care to think on why because it'd require more self-examination than she'd be comfortable with, would result in a discomforting analysis of flaws and personality that she already knows in general if not in specifics, he doesn't think. )
A mouthful, ( he points out, watching lottie move the food around the plate. watches her pointedly not eat. a brief flash of something that makes itself known as an internal 'for fuck's sake' that he refrains from externalising, and he realises he doesn't know what to say.
realises that every time something like this has happened before, he deals with it by going. by heading into the city or wherever and using his fists to work through his feelings, leaving — what? marlene to visit jean-paul in the hospital? leaving marlene with jean-paul and samuels and nedda after her brother had died? realises—ish. enough to recognise that in spite of how tired he is, he's antsy. difficult. that his patience is thin.
reluctantly, then, he adds— )
It's better than MREs.
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There's a shift of her legs as one is drawn to her chest, as she curls over it. Realizes that neither of them have said anything and now that their fires have dwindled (no more arguments and personal drama to focus on, nothing but why they're here and the ensuing consequences thereof, how it makes the air tangy and her tongue bitter) it's awkward. Middling on unpleasant. Different from their normal awkward, the one she can navigate out of whenever she likes with a swipe of her phone.
(Her free hand twitches, like it's instinctively reaching for itβ or maybe like she already expects it to be there. Her eyes briefly dart down in realization, forcibly planting her palm flat against her shin after.)
Since she doesn't have her crutch, she leaves the duties of conversation guru to Marc because she doesn't have it in her to do much more than focus on herself. And surprisinglyβ he delivers? Her eyes look up to him, blink once, then, ]
..MREs?
[ He pointed out mouthful and she's venturing for another, glancing up to him as if to say see? I can be good. As if it'll help him look less ready to leap out of a window and away from the situation. Because of course he's uncomfortable, who wouldn't be? And so she chews, slow, careful, dutifully ignoring the throb to her cheek that trickles into her jaw when her teeth slam together too hard, when she stops being careful and resumes being normal. ]
What is that? Army stuff?
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the mission has a security system adapted from the one he'd had installed here. the one that means he doesn't have to be concerned by noises, but that doesn't mean he doesn't frown when she drops the knife noisily to the plate, features pinching and pulling tight even if he doesn't say anything. it's helped by the way she — eventually — takes a second bite. this time, he does catch the flash of discomfort, the pain, the way it hits her unexpectedly as she chews, not yet used to the different pressure points, the way she needs to adapt what she's doing.
it's—.
guilt, cold and all-encompassing, filling and tense in his stomach, stretching across his limbs, and he says nothing. instead, his gaze flickers to her when she says 'army stuff', the instinctual response that he wasn't army sitting unsaid. she's not like rogers, from whom the remark of 'soldier' had felt pointed. she doesn't know the differences, the minutiae and it's not meant as anything other than what it is: a question. )
Meals, Ready to Eat, ( he answers, dryly agreeing— ) Army stuff. A meal, a snack, and something masquerading as dessert. Some of them are, ( his gaze flickers to the food, to lottie. a quirk of his lips. ) Edible. Some of them— ( he waves his hand, loose and vague. ) There was a veggie omelette called the Vomlette. One of those was two too many.
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Ew!
[ Vomlette. She wonders how much one too many he's talking from experience. As disgusting as he implication is (is the 'v' for vomit, or veggie?) it's.. A little funny. Lottie doesn't laugh, but she expels a puff of air like it's the ghost of one. Maybe, the suggestion of humor. Like the idea of Marc eating this concoction is funny when put next to Marc eating a ready to eat meal that isn't from the freezer aisle.
(Marc in his suit in the grocery store, mask on and loafers shiny. She disguises the weird little quirk of her lips with another small, portioned out, bite.) ]
So it's like the stuff preppers eat? The dusty food you put water in. [ Not a question, just her trying to piece together where she thinks she's seen it in media, on TV. ] Did you have a favorite?
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he pauses for a fraction of a second when she asks a completely unexpected question, eyebrows arching and expression questioningly blank. thinking. ) —Yeah, ( he answers, decision reached. (for the first part.) as for the second—.
god. )
Lottie, ( slightly pained, desperately and suddenly aware. remembers, suddenly, their first conversation, the one where lottie had mentioned still being in fucking high school whilst he was deployed in iraq. ) That was almost twenty years ago.
( he's fairly certain he said he got kicked out even if he didn't elaborate on why, but he's also fairly certain he didn't explain that it was a handful of years at most. three, maybe four. awkwardness interspersed with normality interspersed with increasingly odd and unexplainable behaviour, the sort that the crowd he ran with afterwards was willing to overlook because crazy meant payday meant who gave a fuck. yeah, sure, marc spector, sometimes jake lockley, sometimes steven grant, didn't always know when to stop, couldn't always explain what he'd done or why, but he always got results. )
Do you know how many times I've been hit in the head since then? You're asking me to choose my favourite like I'm choosing between my least favourite children.
—Chicken was normally safe. It's hard to fuck up.
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She pauses her fork scraping down for another bite. Now she's remembering how she was in high school while he was in fucking Iraq. Lottie frowns deeply, only mildly hindered by the swelling to her cheek because she's so preoccupied with the thought that Marc is as old as her sisters and doing all of this. Has done so much more than she ever will. When her back feels like death because she's too top heavy and she's not even thirty yet.
Distantly she wonders how bad it's going to get when she's olderβ how it is for Marc who never will bear the burden she does (being beautiful is truly a burden) but gets the shit beaten out of him and vice verse for a living. How much wear and tear he's already put through his skin and bones, especially tonight, at her expense.) ]
..How many times has that happened?
[ Forget the chicken Marc, clearly, because that has quickly lost steam to her. She just notes it down as Marc's least favorite child right next to whatever is on their plate and she ushers him to take another, now more aware of how he's not eating but more so supervising her. It's here where she's actually recalling how much of his life has been bathed in violence, the continuing trend that has never stopped. Now with horror or scandal, but with disbeliefβ ]
I thought you were like an expert or something!
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getting hit? fighting? maybe, given the question he hasn't answered yet, the question that doesn't have an answer because who knows! lottie knows the type of life he leads, knows what he gets up to, how he comes home looking. these days it's better than it used to be, he's better than he used to be — overall, he's less violent, if only because of the midnight mission, the help that his neighbours come to him for that isn't always beating some thug senseless. less violent because, right now, he doesn't feel as if he's got something to prove to khonshu, doesn't need to prove anything except that—.
he's not that guy. he's not the one who kept to the shadows talking to things no-one else could see, he's not carving threats and reminders and promises into flesh, not cutting off faces.
'the only thing I'm an expert in is dying', he thinks of saying and then decides better. thinks then that it's not true — two things, the other being causing hurt.
a weighted pause, the process of deciding working its way across marc's features before he speaks. ) There was a kid I used to know. He once told me he'd never met anyone that knew how to punch someone in the fist with their face as well as me. ( or: yes, lottie, he's an expert—. ) After I got kicked out of the forces, ( a pointed reminder that it wasn't something marc chose, for whatever that means. ) I boxed.
( a glance, level. ) The sort of boxing that you only get to watch if you know a guy who knows a guy. Good money in it, though.
—So, I don't know.
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